Sans Temps
by intallah
Summary: He left time by the roadside. HIDAN GEN. drabble


Sans Temps

_Sans Temps_

At first, time was heavy as chains. Time was pewter; digging into his wrists that were so pale, skin so thin it always burned in the sun. Time was always dragging, always murmuring behind him, whispering at his heels in a tongue silky and sultry. Time was his mistress, her lips against his ear.

There is a way, the young priest had told him, so long ago while he choked on his own blood, the sun blinding him. There is a way to leave time, leave her on the roadside. And as Hidan grasped the bleeding, gaping wound that spread across his chest like a flower, such a dark red against skin blue-tinged, the priest said there is a way to walk ahead of her.

So that she may never reach you.

But at first, at first he could still smell her bitter perfume, her perfume like alcohol and flowers. Perfume that held him fast like shackles and her taste was in his mouth like blood. And at night she would whisper to him-_tell me, does death speak to you? Has it made a name for you? Tell me, _her fingers pulling him back, against the wind that flavoured the air with freedom, freedom that was not his, _Tell me, has death taken you?_

And he learned to curse her.

At first, death was heavy as chains. At first death cut into his shoulders and bit at his ears, death (in a coat of sables!) so sharp tongued. At first, death watched over him like carrion. Death will not touch you, the Priest had said, the priest with the face of a young God, a face so pure, that white, virgin _puer aeturnus_ with the sharp teeth and bloodstained robes. But that did not stop Death from watching, eyes hot as sun over Hidan's shoulder as Hidan's skin bleached itself into bone-white and his eyes darkened into fear itself.

It could not last forever.

It was the first kill. Blood on metal, so shining and beautiful in the cold morning sunlight. Blood in snow, that grotesque mire of gore and his victim's face white and frozen in fear, white lips parted to reveal a tongue still pink and wet. It was not the blood, blood that tasted like salt and gold. No, he had seen his reflection in the man's eyes, him, rising cloaked from the snow like a demon or a ghost, so white and eyes so dark and crimson. He had seen the flash of his scythe, his red tongue lapping at the man's blood as if he were the devil. He had seen his fear reflected in the man's eyes, eyes grey as dusk. He had seen himself, and he was death.

_I will give you power,_ the priest had said, _let me give you the world._

He was death. He was invincible. He wasn't real, could not be real. Nothing but a myth and a shadow, a ghost story of death with eyes like fire and skin like white stone. Death carried a scythe.

And time that once hung onto him like a harlot, with painted mouth and promises sweet and sticky as melted sugar. Time, that cloying lady, shackling him with bony fingers and nails like talons. Time passed him at the roadside her face haughty and proud and she said nothing to him. And he left her there, waist deep in snow, her heart and fingers frozen and her eyes torn from his face.

Now he knew how to deal death as if it was gold, as if it was bread. Now he could stop time, forget time because what was time to him? Him, eternally young with that angel face and the voice that could savage or seduce, he did not need time. Let her grieve at the roadside. Let her freeze and let her die. What use could she be, tugging at the hem of his cloak like a spurned mistress? He was death and death was time, time taking back what was hers.

Oh, it would end.

He was Jashin's messenger, the angel with fire on his tongue and jewels for eyes. It would end with him in his God's hands, hearing those black lips murmur praise, those gloved hands pulling him finally from his place on this static earth, while those around him burned and writhed. It would end.

It would end, but he would not. How could Time take him? He was time; he knew how to stop her. And Jashin would save him, Jashin with the eyes of a demon, the voice of a God.

In the end, he would still be Death. And time would be nothing.

_end_


End file.
